Best Served Cold
by Tyranusfan
Summary: In the aftermath of the Mystery Spot ordeal, Sam and Dean encounter an old enemy, and Sam might pay for it with his life. Set mid-Season 3, after Jus In Belo. Rated T for some bad language. Originally published in Brotherhood 8 fanzine in May 2009.
1. Chapter 1

**This appeared in the fanzine Brotherhood 8 last year. Thanks to geminigrl11 and K Hanna Korossy for editing, and the zine staff for publishing it!**

**I own nothing. Reviews craved. **

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**Best Served Cold**

_Provo, Utah_

_Midnight_

"'Battered and Bruised.' Those should be our nicknames. Or our _codenames_—that'd be cool!"

Trudging tiredly through the motel doorway, Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's latest attempt to find them nicknames. He dropped their weapons bag by the room's table and shrugged out of his ruined jacket. His shoulders protested the movement. _Maybe 'Bruised' is appropriate_….

They had just spent half the night tracking a wendigo through an abandoned mineshaft and the surrounding woods. A young couple, Aaron Lynch and Zoey Miller, had gone missing the week before, but thankfully were still alive when Sam and Dean had found them in the creature's lair.

Hunting a wendigo at night wasn't the best option, and many a hunter had been killed trying. But all their efforts to corner the thing during the day had failed, so they'd been forced to go with Dean's all-too-familiar fallback plan: live bait. Sam's protests, as usual, were ignored.

Sam shook his head silently. That was an all-too-familiar phenomenon as well. He glanced up at Dean, who was slowly removing his own filthy clothes by the bed and staring at Sam expectantly. He actually wanted an answer to his suggestion.

Sam thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. "How would people tell us apart?" 

Dean smirked. "I'd still be the good-looking one."

Sam sighed, setting his mud-caked shoes beside one of the chairs. "Whatever, egomaniac. I'm taking the first shower."

As he moved toward the bathroom, Dean snorted indignantly. "Why do you get to go first?"

"Um." Sam frowned, turning around. "Because I'm the one you tossed into the river?"

Dean spread his hands. "I saved your life, dude! That thing was coming right at you. I should get first dibs."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "If you hadn't stopped to flirt with that Zoey girl, I wouldn't have needed saving."

"Oh, yeah…" Dean sighed, staring off into space, clearly reminiscing. "She was so hot…"

"Anyway," Sam cut in, hating to interrupt. _Not_. "A simple 'behind you' would have worked."

"You're such an ingrate, Sammy," Dean chided, though a grin was curving his mouth.

Sam relaxed a little and tried to calm down, recognizing that exhaustion was making him irritable. "Maybe, but I'll be a _clean_ ingrate, jerk. Order a pizza or something, would ya? I'm starving."

He retreated to the bathroom without waiting for Dean's retort.

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Dean cast a glare at the closing bathroom door, reaching for the phone book to find a takeout number. _Bossy little bitch_…

Scanning the Yellow Pages, Dean let his thoughts wander. Sam _had_ been a little bossy since… Well, since their run-in with that damned Trickster in Broward County. All Dean knew was that Sam had been practically unhinged on Tuesday, going on about the Trickster making him relive the day over and over, and then on Wednesday, he was suddenly different. Sam woke up looking _older_, worn down. Then he'd jumped off the bed and hugged Dean like he hadn't seen him in forever.

Dean had gotten very little out of him in the weeks since. The Trickster had trapped Sam in some sort of Groundhog's Day time loop, making him watch Dean die day after day something like a _hundred_ times. Which was still kind of hard to believe. That, in and of itself, had to register a 9.0 on their Weird-Shit-o-Meter, but it seemed to have shaken Sam to the core.

But Sam had acted strange ever since. He was quiet, far too quiet. Sitting in that jail cell in Monument before the demons attacked, he had barely spoken at all, just stared off into space. Though, that day had also been Dean's one big break in uncovering whatever had happened in Broward County.

After the siege—and Ruby's news that, while their actions have driven off the demons, the survivors had all been killed anyway by Lilith—they'd been so beat to hell and exhausted that Dean had convinced Sam to take some medicine and go to bed. His brother had acquiesced.

Painkillers and Sam were a hit-or-miss situation. Sometimes they dulled pain and knocked him out. Sometimes they doped him up and acted like truth serum. Dean had learned many a thing over the years when Sam was drugged to the gills. It was underhanded, sure, but older brothers often had to use any trick to take care of their little brothers. Dean had no regrets.

Under the influence, Sam had revealed, disjointedly, that Dean had died one final time in the Trickster's game. Only, instead the day resetting, Sam had gone on alone for over _six months_. Unlike Dean, who didn't remember any of it, Sam had a clear recollection. No wonder the kid had come back different.

Dean was fairly certain he was dodging sleep, too. _Probably afraid he'll wake up on Wednesday again_. Dean would be. The Trickster had put his brother through Hell.

No one else seemed to have noticed the change, except for maybe Bobby, but Dean saw it. It was subtle, and Sam buried it well, but there was an edge now. Something brooding just below the surface. Sam's six months alone couldn't have been pleasant, but the kid still wasn't willing to talk about it outside of his painkiller-induced confessions, and it didn't seem like anything short of dynamite was going to change his mind.

Dean wanted to ask. He wanted to help. Sam had helped him so much in the last few months to come to terms with his upcoming deal. He had no doubt he would have flamed out in panic had Sam not been there, and Dean wanted to repay that. Needed to repay it.

Sam didn't want acknowledgement, or thanks, Dean knew. But he could reciprocate. It was only fair.

Unfortunately, getting Sam to release his vice-like hold on what he was thinking was easier said than done. His OCD had come out in full-force after what Dean was thinking of as the "Mystery Spot incident." Hell, they were still butting heads over the proper organization of the Impala's trunk. Dean was happy so long as the guns, knives, and other implements stayed separate; Sam had them freaking _alphabetized_.

Dean's thoughts crashed to a halt when he heard the shower turn off. He hurriedly dialed the pizza place's number. If Sam came out and found him lost in thought, Dean would get hit with a barrage of "are you okay" and "talk to me." It had been like that for weeks.

Yeah, being alone for six months had also turned Sam into something of a hypocrite, so far as opening up went.

Dean had the pizza ordered before the door opened. Sam came out, drying his hair, and started rummaging through his bag for a shirt. He glanced up, and Dean knew he was busted. He hadn't covered his expression fast enough.

"What's wrong?"

Cringing inwardly at the dreaded question, Dean turned and pasted on his most convincing irate-older-sibling face. "Besides that I'm still covered in mud and wendigo blood? Nothin'."

Sam hesitated a moment, then seemed to fall for it, smiling. "Shower's free. You get a pizza?"

"On its way," Dean replied easily, already halfway into the bathroom and out from under his brother's scrutiny. "You're buying."

He just barely heard Sam's "jerk" as the door clicked shut.

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Dinner was quiet. A lot of dinners had been quiet since Sam's ordeal. Dean knew that Sam was trying to act as though everything was normal, and in many ways, they had fallen back into familiar patterns. Dean drove, Sam researched, they knew each other's moves in the field. As hunters, they were just as good, if not better, than they'd been before. But as _brothers_, there was friction.

Months alone, if even only in his mind, had broadened Sam's independent streak, and they butted heads sometimes on how to go about things. He eased into the lead, the dominant partner in their two-man hunting team. It would have made their Dad proud to see his youngest so willing to step up. Sam was good at it.

Which was fine, Dean decided. Really.

It also meant that some things Dean had once taken as law weren't so clear-cut anymore. Things like who went through a door first on a hunt, who called the play when a fight was going south, who hustled the pool or poker game when they needed money. Things that had once been _Dean's_ specialty.

Dean didn't begrudge Sam's newfound prowess or his now-honed ability to take care of himself. Hell, it was what Dean wanted. Sam needed to become a survivor, like Dean himself had been urging. Thanks to the cursed Trickster, his little brother had lived on his own for six months and not only survived but excelled. At least, that was Dean's impression. That was great. Dean was proud of him.

Really.

Unfortunately, it also meant that Sam was becoming a lot more like their dad, which in turn meant that small-talk was…well, not easy. Not that Sam wasn't trying. He laughed at all the right jokes and traded barbs with ease. But it all seemed scripted. Everything was a little too _things I'll do if I ever see my dead brother again_ for Dean's taste.

He guessed he understood. He'd been the same way for a while after he'd gotten Sam back after Cold Oak, and apparently, Sam had been alone a lot longer. A _lot_ longer.

So Dean got it, and he kept reminding himself to be patient. Sam had never recovered well from drastic changes. It was why he'd had so much trouble moving from town to town as a child. Why Sam had taken so many months to get back into the swing of hunting after Jess's death. Clearly, this was no different. Dean had died. Sam had been forced to adjust. Now, Dean was back, and all those changes Sam had made in order to live alone were turned on their heads. Some things just hadn't readjusted.

These days, it seemed Sam's only concerns were Dean, breaking the deal, and hunting. In that order.

That didn't leave much to chat about. Sometimes Sam just sat silently while they ate or researched. Just sat. He wouldn't speak and didn't seem to relax at all. Dean would turn his head and find Sam staring at him, like he was trying to memorize him. Occasionally, Sam would jump when Dean spoke, as if he wasn't expecting anyone else to be in the room.

There was no spark, no joy over much of anything except ammo being on sale or gas prices going down. Dean wondered sometimes how much of his little brother was left under all that Hunter. What it would take to get him back.

Dean surreptitiously watched Sam eat. There was little else to do, since his last three attempts to strike up a conversation had died quick and awkward deaths. Sam was eating the slice of pizza with a knife and fork. Not necessarily unusual. Dean preferred to dive in with his hands, but Sammy had always been a neat freak.

Not like this, though. Sam cut with machinelike precision. Each piece was then chewed methodically and swallowed, then the whole process repeated with no deviation. His drink sat about six inches from the plate, and no matter how many times Sam picked it up, the bottle always came back down on the same spot. It was eerie, like watching a robot.

"You're doing it again."

Sam always did have eyes like a hawk, especially where Dean was concerned. That hadn't changed.

Dean blinked away his frown. "Hmm?"

Sam sighed and stopped eating. "Dean…what's going on? You're looking at me like you expect me to sprout another head."

"That'd be pretty freaky," Dean covered, taking a swig from his beer to stall. He didn't want to have the conversation this way, with Sam on the defensive.

"Dean."

He knew what the frown would look like before looking back up at Sam. And knew, too, that he wasn't getting out of it that easy. "I'm— Look, man…I'm just worried about you, all right?"

Sam's frown went from annoyed to confused. "Me? You're worried about me?"

"I think maybe we need to take a break."

"A break?"

"What are you, a parrot? Yes, Sam, a _break_. A vacation. Shore leave. Something. We've been going non-stop since Christmas."

"There's a war on," Sam muttered.

"People take breaks, even soldiers. And frankly— Frankly, Sam, you're weirding me out. All these strange habits…you're _different_."

Sam's expression shifted, becoming more challenging. "Name one 'strange habit.'"

Dean chewed his lip for a moment. It looked like they were having this conversation after all. "The OCD."

Sam frowned again, staring at Dean.

Dean pressed on. "Look at the notes on the walls, Sammy. You couldn't get them any straighter if you used a level. It looks like a serial killer's lair. The trunk of the car? I need the freakin' Dewey Decimal system to find the guns, and if I don't get it back in the right spot, you repack the whole thing before we hit the road. The way you eat—"

"There's nothing wrong with being organized," Sam interjected, sounding a little rebuffed. "And I eat just fine."

"You're not eating that pizza, Sam. You're performing surgery on it."

Sam glanced down at his plate, so clueless it was almost comical. He glanced back up at Dean, clearly at a loss for words. "If— I can try to loosen up if I'm bothering you."

Dean cringed inside. That wasn't what he wanted. "Sam…you're not bothering me, man. I'm just worried about you. You were always a neat freak, but this is over the top." He wasn't sure if he was getting through, so he softened his tone more. Sam seemed to be shrinking into his seat. "Sam, look, I know whatever happened to you in Broward County was hard, but—"

Dean's phone chirped. _Great timing. Damn it_. He glanced at the screen before opening it, not recognizing the number.

He looked back at Sam before answering. "You're not bothering me. That's not what I meant, Sammy. Hello?"

A male voice he hadn't heard before replied. "_Dean Winchester?_"

"Yeah? Who is this?"

"_Is Sam with you?_"

The tone of the voice caused Dean to straighten in his chair. He looked at Sam as he answered. "No. Sam's not with me. Who is this?"

Sam stopped eating and turned his full attention to the conversation. His whole demeanor shifted to one of wariness and concern, his earlier frown dropping off.

"_Don't be coy, Dean. Put me on the speaker_."

Dean grimaced, shaking his head at Sam, and held the phone out between them. He pressed the button for the speaker. "Okay. We're listening. Wanna tell us why?"

"_Hi, Sam!" _the voice called pleasantly. "_Long time no see_."

"Do I know you?" Sam replied coolly.

"_I found something that belongs to you_," the caller said, ignoring their questions completely. "_If you want it back, you'll come see me_."

Dean growled. This was either a prank or a threat, and he was tired of waiting to see which. He glanced around the room, smirking at Sam. "Looks to me like all our earthly possessions are in our room. I don't think you have anything of ours, mister."

"_Well, let's see_." There was a rustling on the line, like something being moved. After a moment, a new voice came on.

"_Sam?_"

Dean blinked for a moment, noting that Sam had gone pale. His blood ran cold when the new—terrified—voice clicked in his memory. Sam beat him to answering.

"Sarah? Sarah, what's—?"

"_Do I have your attention now, boys?_"

Sam snarled. "Who the hell—?"

"_I'm surprised you've forgotten, Sam. We shared a body for over a week. I know I'm more memorable than that_."

Sam scowled. "Meg!"

Dean groaned inwardly. This was no ordinary kidnapping, then…not that that was surprising. Their lives weren't that easy. This was much worse. After she'd fled Bobby's when they got her out of Sam, they'd dared hope Meg was gone for good. Dean wondered bitterly just what they'd have to do to rid themselves of the bitch.

"_Come to Chicago and I'll give her back to you. If you're not here in the next twenty-four hours, the next call you get will be when I cut her throat_."

The call ended abruptly. They both stared dumbly at the silent phone for a moment before looking at each other. Sam's expression was somewhere between stunned and enraged. Dean was pretty sure his own expression mirrored those feelings.

He stood and pocketed the cell. Driving non-stop, they could be in Chicago in about twenty hours. Just under the deadline.

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The ride in the car was tense. Dean looked over at Sam, who was obsessively checking and rechecking their duffels. Salt, exorcisms, holy water, and spray paint to draw traps: they were armed to the teeth. Too bad they didn't have the Colt.

"Have you talked to Sarah recently? Did she mention anyone hanging around?"

Sam shrugged, the grim expression not wavering. "No. Last time I talked—well, saw her—was right after that thing with the rabbit's foot."

He glanced over at Dean, expression faltering momentarily.

"Uh…remember she met us after we ditched Gordon's buddies?"

Dean looked over, smiling. Of course. After getting away from the two hunters Gordon Walker had sent after them in Buffalo, they'd headed south. They'd holed up near New Paltz, and that night Sarah had called, totally unaware of what was happening. She'd insisted on seeing them when she'd found out Sam had been hurt.

Dean remembered leaving Sam alone with her for a few hours. His prude of a brother _wasted_ them, but whatever. At least there was some lipstick on Sam's mouth afterward. Dean still liked to tease Sam about whatever did or did_ not_ happen. "Oh, right. When she was there playing nurse."

Sam shook his head at Dean's lewd implication. "Anyway, she didn't mention anything unusual. She just wanted to check up on me."

The tone of Sam's voice caused a faint smile to form on Dean's face despite the direness of the situation. Sarah and Sam had kept in sporadic touch after meeting almost a year and a half earlier. They usually just chatted for a few hours, nothing too serious. Sam had managed to go see her once when they'd found a hunt in New York, but not long afterward, he'd had the scarring fling with Madison.

After that, Sam didn't initiate any more calls.

Dean hated that, since it was clear Sam still felt something for Sarah, and Madison's death wasn't the kid's fault, no matter how much he blamed himself. None of Dean's advice had been heeded, though, and before long, Sam's death and Dean's deal had overshadowed everything else. He'd found Sam talking to Sarah a few times since then, but Sarah had been the one to call and the calls never lasted long before Sam resumed his research.

Still, it wasn't surprising there was something of a spark left between them, a repressed urge, at least. Maybe someday Sam would let himself act on it, but so far, breaking Dean's deal had consumed his attention completely. The kid didn't give himself time to have a life; he was too busy obsessing over Dean's.

"How the hell did Meg get to her?" Sam spat angrily, slamming the bag down on the seat between them. "I showed her how to protect herself."

Dean glanced at his fuming sibling. That rage was new, too, and never far below the surface anymore. "Meg's gotten the drop on us often enough, Sammy."

Sam didn't answer, just rubbed his forehead. The anger and frustration were practically rolling off him.

Dean swatted his arm lightly. "Hey, pull it together, man. You've got the next thirteen hundred miles to fume, then we gotta go to work."

Dropping his hand and looking over, Sam grimaced. "Meg's gonna kill her, Dean," he murmured. "She's going to kill her just because she knows _me_."

"No. She isn't," Dean said confidently. A little more confidently than he actually felt. When Sam opened his mouth, Dean cut him off. "She isn't, Sam. We won't let anything happen to Sarah."

Sam chewed his lip for a moment before turning his face back to the window. "Our track record isn't so great on that, Dean."

There was that guilt again. Over Mom, Jess, Dad, Madison: countless others they hadn't been able to save over the years. And finally over Dean himself. Dean shook his head. Sometimes he feared Sam was headed for a meltdown.

"Try to get some sleep, Sam," he suggested, knowing it would be ignored. "I'll wake you up when we stop for gas."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sam watched the dark landscape rush by through one cracked eye. He'd grown tired of Dean's constant concerned glances and decided to simply pretend to sleep. _Yeah, like I don't do that every night. _

The truth was, since living out all those months alone, Sam hadn't been able to find the comfort he'd once known sleeping while Dean drove. He wanted it, needed it, but it just didn't happen. Luckily, he supposed, months of nightmares and sleepless nights after Jess's death had led him to perfect the art of resting his eyes without totally falling asleep.

Sam practiced that talent now. He'd been doing it a lot lately, as the rings under his eyes proved. He wondered how long until Dean got on his case about that.

Even if sleeping hadn't been so difficult, Sam wouldn't have been able to calm his mind enough for it. The thought of Sarah being held hostage rolled over in his mind. Meg wouldn't be kind, given their history, and that made Sam's blood boil. Sarah didn't deserve to suffer because of him.

_Another innocent unfortunate enough to get tangled up in my craptastic life. _

He'd fallen for Sarah Blake almost as soon as he'd laid eyes on her in New Paltz almost one and a half years earlier. She'd challenged him in the auction house, testing his art knowledge and his cover story about being an art dealer. He'd asked later if she'd been on to him that day, had somehow seen through his lie. She'd never answered him.

Sarah had defied his expectations almost from the beginning. On the surface, she was a tall, high-class socialite daughter of a rich, equally upper-class auctioneer. Eloquent. Polished. Expensive tastes. Very nice dress. _Eyes you could_—

Sam frowned, getting too caught up in the memory.

Naturally, Dean decided that Sam was the best choice to talk to her, and maneuvered him into taking her out to a nice restaurant to pump her for information about a haunted painting they were researching. A few minutes into his embarrassing struggle with a wine list at dinner, she'd surprised him.

_I don't know about_ Romeo _here, but I'll have a beer_.

Later, when she'd discovered a close family friend murdered by the spirit they were hunting, Sarah had surprised him again by not treating him and Dean like crazy people, calling the police or worse. She'd accepted their explanation remarkably easily and even helped them solve the case.

Back then, all he could think about was Jessica. She'd been unaware of his family's "business" and had been murdered by the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Sam had failed to protect her from that, and had been certain when he met Sarah that he couldn't protect her any better than he had Jess. He'd tried in vain to back off, convinced he was too dangerous to even be around.

_I had a girlfriend, and she died…and, my mom died, too. I don't know, it's like— It's like I'm cursed or something. Like death just follows me around. Look, I'm not afraid of much, but if I let myself have feelings for anybody…_

_You're scared they'll get hurt, too. That's very sweet, Sam…and very archaic. I'm a big girl, Sam. It's not your job to make decisions for me. There's always a chance of getting hurt. _

_Sarah, you don't understand. The pain I went through…I can't do that again. I can't._

It had done no good to tell her that. Jess had told him once that he liked a challenge. Sarah was definitely that. In the end, though, the way things were shaping up, it seemed Sam was being proven right. She'd persisted in maintaining contact with him, despite his attempts to dissuade her, and now she was in danger because of it.

If they were successful rescuing her, Sam intended to tell Sarah to get as far from him as humanly possible, and would see to it that it happened. He had too many enemies these days, and most of them had no regard for innocent lives. Or human life at all.

Sarah needed to stay away from him for her own good.

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They neared Chicago around nine the next night. Sam glanced surreptitiously over at his brother in the passenger seat. Dean had finally surrendered the wheel after Sam had practically dragged him out of the driver's seat at a gas station outside Omaha. Dean was exhausted and had passed out almost as soon as they were back on the road. Sam didn't disturb him.

Though bleary-eyed, hands clenched on the wheel, Sam wasn't tired. His mind had mulled over memories of Sarah for hours on end, reaching the inescapable conclusion that one of two outcomes was possible that night. Either they would rescue Sarah, and Sam would insist they part ways permanently to keep her safe—a conversation he dreaded on many levels—or they'd fail, and he would add one more innocent to his list of victims.

In any event, he was going to make sure Meg was truly _gone_ this time. He wished they still had the Colt, or Ruby's demon-killing knife. The demon-bitch had caused them enough trouble for one lifetime.

Dean's cell rang on the seat between them. Sam glanced at the screen, answering it before it rang twice and woke his snoring sibling. "Yeah?"

"_Howdy, Sam!" _The man's voice was unusually pleasant, almost shrill. Sam didn't have to guess who it was.

"Meg," he ground out. "Where's Sarah?"

"_She's around. The more important question is, where are you? Time's running out_."

"We just crossed the city limits. Where do we need to go?"

"_Patience, Sammy_," Meg chided. "_You're playing my game. I make the rules_."

Sam's anger boiled over. He opened his mouth, even knowing that he was reacting just like Meg wanted. "If you hurt Sarah—"

"_Don't be so dramatic. Besides, that's such a cliché. 'If you hurt her, I'll kill you.' You can do better than that, Sam_."

"What do you want? Why are you doing this?"

"_Why do you think? Your chucklehead of a brother killed my father_. _My brother, too, and maybe I didn't like him that much, but it's the principle of the thing_."

"Like your kind cares about principles," Sam snarled back.

"_Ooh_," Meg cooed. "_Such a bigot, Sammy. I like this new you. Dying becomes you. Or is it Dean's impending little trip down under that's given you this new attitude? I hear he'll have one hell of a time. I'll be sure to stop in and visit_."

The too-casual mention of Dean's deadline pushed Sam over the edge. "I _will_ kill you, Meg. I'll find a way, that's a promise."

She chuckled, a disturbing sound coming from her male host. "_So hot, Sam. We've got to get together. Don't worry, I'll find a female body first_. _Or maybe you can let me move in again. Cozier that way_."

Sam growled, but before he could respond, the phone was grabbed out of his hand. He turned to find Dean wide awake and motioning for him to keep his eyes on the road.

"We're here, Meg. Tell us what you want us to do now."

Sam couldn't hear the reply, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes forward as Dean directed.

"No, you're trying to make him mad. Well, congratulations, he's pissed. Now, tell me where we need to go…Sorry, you gotta deal with me for now…Oh, don't worry about that. I'll make sure you and Sam get some private time later. Little candlelight, some holy water, and you two can make an evening of it…Yeah, I get that a lot…Where? When?...Fine."

Dean snapped the phone shut and glared at Sam. "She was getting under your skin, Sam, trying to distract you. You know better than that."

"Did she say where to go?" Sam gritted out, trying to hold his temper. _Damn it_. Dean was right: he'd let Meg get to him. She knew which buttons to push. Glancing at Dean again, seeing the concerned stare, Sam sighed. "Yes, you're right, I know better. I'm just tired."

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for not sleeping when I told you to," Dean said, flashing his all-knowing big brother smirk.

Sam blinked. "You knew?"

"The day you can pull one over on me, kiddo…" Dean chided, reaching into the back seat for a map. "Meg's in that warehouse where she ambushed us two years ago."

"The same one?" Sam asked, eyebrows raised slightly. _Makes sense she would pick familiar territory_.

"Yep, which gives us the advantage. She wants us to come there, the same floor where she jumped us before." Dean studied the map, glancing up at the passing exit signs. "You remember where it was?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Good, pull off up here. There's a motel up ahead. I say we set up shop first, then head over to the warehouse."

"How long do we have?" Sam asked, changing lanes.

"Depends on how long it takes to get a room. She's expecting us at eleven. I think we should arrive early."

Sam glanced over, narrowing his eyes. "How early?"

"About an hour," Dean replied, checking his watch and grinning. "I think it's time we played ahead of Meg's game."

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The warehouse was just as crummy-looking as Dean remembered. Some new graffiti covered the wall by the street, but the rest of the exterior looked the same. Squinting in the darkness from their position across the street, Dean could even see the busted out window where Meg had taken the swan dive during their first battle. Nothing had changed.

"See anything?"

Sam shrugged beside him, shaking his head as he scanned the building with the handheld video camera. "Nothing out of the ordinary. No lights, no movement. Nothing I can see with the night vision, anyway."

They were crouched behind some large, empty concrete planters about a half-block down the opposite sidewalk from the warehouse. They were, hopefully, out of sight of anyone inside. Surprise attacks didn't work so well when you were spotted before getting to the target.

Dean hated to admit it, and wouldn't to Sam, but he'd been thinking about what Ruby had told them recently. You fight a battle by hitting the enemy hard and fast, and sometimes by not leaving any stragglers behind to rat you out. A rescue mission was a little different than a police station siege, but the striking hard and fast part appealed to Dean. Of course, that left the sticky problem of whatever host she was inside.

Meg wasn't going to let them leave with Sarah; Dean knew Sam was right about that. The bitch would cut Sarah's throat right in front of them for kicks. Their only good option was to go in and take Sarah before Meg was ready for them.

He just hoped Meg _wasn't_ ready for them. _Knowing our luck_….

"Are you sure the car is close enough?" Sam asked quietly, looking the building over with binoculars now. The Impala was tucked away in a side alley about a hundred feet behind them, as close as Dean dared bring the loud vehicle. Fortunately, there was little activity in this stretch of the warehouse district, so the Impala would probably remain safe. He hoped, anyway.

"Her engine's too loud to bring in any closer. We'll have to make do. With luck, we won't be chased out of here," Dean said, considering their next move. "The real question is, can we get to the door without anyone seeing us? That's a long run up to the building."

Sam was scanning lower with the binoculars, a faint smile forming. "Don't really have a choice. We just gotta ninja our way in there." He motioned to the other side of the street. Directly across from them was a sheltered bus stop with large, lit advertisement boards along the sides. Sam glanced at him, handing off the binoculars. "Ready?"

Dean nodded. He dropped the surveillance equipment back in the bag, zipped and hefted it over his shoulder as Sam double-checked the empty street and then bolted for the other side. When Sam was in place, Dean followed.

He skidded to a stop just inches from his brother, who was already checking the next leg of their trip, a darkened alcove with a set of boarded-up doors under a metal overhang. It looked like an old theater entrance.

They repeated their dash, moving from the bus stop to the alcove in seconds. Once crouched in the darkness, Dean reopened the bag and handed Sam his handgun, taking the small sawed-off for himself. The area around them was lit by a huge three-story, red-lettered neon sign hanging above them against the side of the next building. It buzzed loudly in the still night air.

The streetlights closer to the warehouse flickered periodically. _Demonic activity_. Not that they needed the confirmation.

If Sam noticed, he said nothing. After a few quick glances at their target, he turned to look over his shoulder, his expression like stone. This was the scary, Dad-like hunter Dean had been seeing a lot since the "incident" with the Trickster. Unlike Dad, though, for some reason Sam didn't inspire confidence when he was like this. Deep down, it scared the hell out of Dean. Sam was supposed to be the levelheaded and logical one in the family, balancing Dean's recklessness and Dad's hardcore stubbornness.

_Yeah, like that formula ever actually worked even when we were all together._

Dean shook his head, clearing the thought away. This was Sam. If there was anyone Dean trusted absolutely, it was his brother. He focused instead on the task at hand. They could talk about Sam's new badassed hunter persona later, when this was over.

.

"I don't see anybody," Sam whispered. "Okay, hand me the bag. I'll run up and make sure it's clear. I'll signal for you if it is."

Dean shot at irritated glance at his younger sibling. He had done this sort of thing before; he didn't need instructions. But Sam's unnecessary orders weren't the main thing on his mind at the moment. "I should go first."

It was Sam's turn to frown. "Why?"

_Damn_. Dean had hoped Sam might just agree without a fight. _Yeah, right_. "I, uh—" Crap. _I'm the big brother and it's my job_ didn't seem to work on Sam as well these days.

Sam didn't even give him time for that much. "We gotta go _now_, Dean. Time's running out," Sam said firmly, glancing up and down the street before taking off at a sprint_. _

Dean grimaced. _I guess the conversation's over_.

It was a moonless night, and the decrepit buildings and flickering neon lights along the street cast long shadows that easily concealed their movements. The all-black clothes and black caps helped, too. Unless anyone or anything was watching at street level, the brothers would be able to enter the building undetected. It wasn't much comfort to Dean as he watched Sam run from their shadowy alcove to the base of a fire escape, and from there to the closest corner of the warehouse.

A few tense seconds passed while Sam paused, taking in the surroundings. He turned back and motioned with his hand.

Dean bolted for him, taking up position behind Sam in the shadows at the edge of the building. Moments later, they were moving again.

They sidled up to the door, backs against the graffiti-covered wall. The condemned sign was still in place, and the door—flush with the wall—opened easily. Sam slowly pulled it open, glancing in to make sure nothing was waiting for them. With a glance over his shoulder at Dean, he slipped inside. Dean followed, casting one last look at the street and the rows of windows overhead. _So far, so good_.

The inside was much as Dean remembered as well: decades-old wood paneling and white brick walls, pretty much the only illumination the light coming in through cracks in the boarded-up windows. _Yeah, I didn't miss this place one bit_.

The last time they had been here, they'd had to climb up the old caged-in elevator shaft since the stairwell had an electronic lock. Fortunately, when they'd escaped, they'd come down the stairs and busted the door open from the inside. Since it was obvious from the dust and decay that no one had been in the building until now, it seemed they had options.

"So, stairs or elevator? Wanna scale seven stories for old times' sake?" Dean whispered.

Sam glared at him. "Stairs. Meg's probably watching the elevator if she wants to meet us in the same place as before."

They went up the short flight of steps leading to the stairwell door, checking to make sure the locks were still broken. Dean smiled. They were in luck for once. He went to open the door, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Here," he whispered, reaching into the bag. He pulled out two magnesium flares, holding one out. "I did some research when you were checking us in at the motel. There've been three murders in the area in the past week. All three had their hearts torn out."

Dean frowned, trying to think why that would be important, but the flares reminded him. "Oh, man… You think she's got another pack of daevas up there?"

"Better safe than sorry," Sam muttered. "If they are up there, at least we know how to drive them off this time."

"How many of these you got?" Dean asked, sliding the flare into his jacket pocket.

"Just four, so don't waste 'em."

"It's not just a job, it's an adventure," Dean murmured. He opened the door and started cautiously up the stairs.

0000000000

The trip up the stairs was tense but uneventful. Dean paused at the door leading to the seventh floor, deciding to divvy up the last two flares in case they got separated.

Sam took a moment to double-check his handgun. "Wish we had the Colt," he muttered quietly.

"Yeah, well…it'll turn up sooner or later. As soon as we catch up to Bela." Dean shrugged. Bela Talbot's selfish meddling and theft had seriously tied their hands lately. Fighting a war against demons was a lot harder without the Colt.

Sam was ready to move. "Keep your eyes out for a black altar. If Meg does have daevas up here, trashing the altar should work the same way."

Dean winced. The last time they'd been there—also dealing with daevas—Sam's smashing Meg's bloody altar had allowed them to get away. But Meg obviously had some other way to control them, since she'd later loosed the bastards on them again at their motel room.

Sam seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Until we can find out what else she's got," he added.

Reaching for the door handle, Dean discovered their first problem of the night. The door was locked. "Ah, great."

Sam muttered a curse. "Can it be picked?"

Unlike the ones below, this was a regular door lock, and an old one at that. Dean tried his lock pick, then uttered a curse of his own. "I guess not. Well, so much for the element of surprise. We're gonna have to move fast." Without another word, he reared back and kicked the door in.

Dean didn't wait for the noise to subside before sticking his head through for a look. The hallway beyond was clear. Dean nodded, covering Sam as he exited the stairwell, then following. They took up positions on either side, using the thick wooden door frames for cover as they moved forward.

They checked the rooms along the short hallway quickly. Nothing. The corridor came to a fork, the right side leading to a large open area near the elevator—where Meg had held them captive two years earlier—and the other ending in a set of small offices and closets.

Sam motioned for Dean to take the side with the offices. Dean hesitated, opening his mouth to protest splitting up. Nothing good ever happened when they did that, but Sam just tapped his watch with the barrel of his gun. The message was clear: _We don't have time to argue. Do it my way_.

Damn, Sam _was_ becoming just like their dad. Dean wasn't too thrilled about that, not that he'd ever say that out loud. Scowling, he sent a silent message of his own. _Be careful_.

Sam nodded and moved to the right.

Watching his sibling a moment longer, Dean turned and headed slowly toward the row of offices on the left. He didn't like this one bit.

0000000000

As Sam edged down the corridor, he found it difficult to set his uneasiness aside. Truth was, he was scared. He was scared for Sarah, who didn't deserve to be caught up in Meg's games and might get hurt or worse. Scared for his brother, who was just a few months out from going to Hell if Sam couldn't figure something out.

If Meg hadn't asked for both of them, Sam would have taken this job himself. He would have tied Dean up back in the motel, if necessary. Better to keep Dean safe, even if it hurt his brother's pride.

Sam shook that thought off. Who was he kidding? He'd have had to knock Dean out to keep him out of this.

Now wasn't the time to think about it, though. They'd already made their presence known, and they needed to find Sarah as soon as possible. Sam focused, slipping into the lone hunting mode he'd developed while Dean was…gone. Sam didn't feel much when he got into that headspace. Things became clearer, black and white. It was useful, but it was hard to break out from. He'd had a lot of trouble trying to go back to the way he'd been before the Trickster…even with Dean around.

And he was pretty sure the new mentality scared his brother, but Sam didn't know how to balance the two states of mind. Dean had been right the night before: Sam was different. He wasn't sure if he could ever fall back into the little brother role Dean missed. Too much had happened. The prospect of being alone after Dean died scared him; Sam didn't like the future the Trickster had shown him at all.

The corridor opened into the large high-ceiled area in front of the elevator shaft. Sam stayed against the back wall, gun out, scanning the room. It was mostly as he remembered. Pallets and crates littered the floor near the center of the room, the wood-framed, circle-top window along the far wall still shattered from when Meg had gone through it.

There was no sign of anything that shouldn't be there, so Sam turned, heading for another short corridor to his right. It appeared to lead toward a set of bathrooms, but the lack of light made it hard to tell.

"Leaving without even a hello, Sammy?" a voice called out from the shadows to his left.

Sam whipped around, gun ready, and saw a large, burly man—construction worker, maybe, judging by his clothes—emerging from the darkness behind one of the beams. It was the same voice from the phone calls. His eyes were black, blending in with the shadows around him.

"Where is she, Meg?" Sam growled, taking a menacing step forward.

The man held out his arms innocently. "Why ask me? You think I have your little girlfriend in my pocket?"

"I'm not playing with you, bitch. Let Sarah go."

"Oh, don't be a square," the man whined. It was unsettling to see this macho construction worker making faces like a teenage girl. "We haven't seen each other for more than a year. I thought we'd have a lot to catch up on. You know, you dying and all. How was that, by the way? I hear now you're letting your brother die. It's nice when brothers share."

Sam seethed, advancing on the possessed man slowly. He was furious but nevertheless paused, trying to determine if the construction worker was still alive. Meg wasn't gentle with her hosts. The blessed rounds in his gun would drive the demon from the man's body, but would also kill the man, and Sam wasn't quite ready to murder an innocent person just to get at the demon inside.

"Well, so much for small talk. You really know how to rain on a girl's parade, Sam," Meg mused nonchalantly.

Sam reached for the flask of holy water in his jeans pocket. He was about halfway to the man when he heard a screech behind him.

Spinning, he abandoned the flask and brought his gun around just in time to be batted off his feet. He slammed shoulder-first into a thick wooden beam, then lay dazed. There was nothing in front of him, just a fluttering, vaguely humanoid shadow along the back wall. Sam fired a consecrated round at it, hitting nothing.

_The daevas are in the room. Their shadows are just the part you can see…_

Meg's words from two years earlier surfaced in his memory. He adjusted his aim a few feet to the right, hopefully to where the invisible creature was standing, and fired again. The response was immediate, though not the one he desired. The bullet ricocheted harmlessly off the wall.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! _He'd let her distract him again. Sam reached for one of his flares.

Sam was swatted from the side, invisible claws raking his face.

He hit the floor hard, the burn on his cheek indicating where he'd been clawed. Blood was already trickling down from the wound.

As he tried to push himself up, he was hit again. Sam brought his arms up in a vain attempt to defend himself, but it was like wrestling with an invisible bear. Razor sharp claws sliced into his side, arms, and left leg. The damned thing was trying to shred him.

A particularly deep slash caught him in the right shoulder, causing him to cry out. Desperately, Sam scuttled backward, Meg all but forgotten for the moment. He tossed his useless weapon aside so that he could grab the flare from his pocket; he couldn't shoot what he couldn't see. The flare finally came loose, and Sam closed his eyes as he ignited it.

The glare was intense, even through his eyelids. The white light flooded the room, and Sam heard the daeva's unearthly scream as he crawled away. As the screeching moved off, Sam tossed the flare a few feet away, letting it flood the room and, hopefully, give him time to escape. Trying to keep one arm over his eyes, Sam collected the discarded gun and fished out his silver blade, then stumbled toward the short hallway behind him. The acrid smoke from the flare choked him.

Coughing, Sam turned the corner into the short hallway before daring to open his eyes. When his vision cleared, Sam was encouraged by what he saw. Between the two bathroom doors sat a heavy wooden table, covered in lit candles and three blood-soaked plates holding human hearts. He could break Meg's control of the daevas. Determined, Sam started toward the black altar.

That was as far as he got.

After two steps, he was slammed forward into the wall, hard. Before he could recover, a set of claws raked his back, shredding his clothes and his flesh. A howl filled his ears, and for a moment Sam honestly couldn't tell if it was a daeva's screech or his own scream. He strained to reach the second flare, but another set of claws joined the first, jabbing into his triceps just above the elbow, pinning his right arm.

Failing that, Sam pushed off the wall, or tried to. The invisible pressure on his back shifted only enough for the daeva's grip to change and fling him to the floor, banging the back of his head against the hardwood. The world was spinning, but Sam managed to grab the flare with his uninjured arm before one of the daeva slammed into him again, knocking the air from his lungs.

He barely had time to gasp before the claws went to work again, ripping into his already bleeding right side and adding a new gash on his left. He didn't have enough air even to scream as the claws continued to tear into him.

A shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space. A second blast followed the first half a second later. Sam felt the air above him move as the rock salt flew by just over his head. The daeva's attack paused briefly, but it was still on top of him. The shotgun blasts didn't do much damage, if it hit the thing at all.

"Sam! Close your eyes!"

He did as instructed, instinct kicking in to obey the order before his oxygen-deprived brain could identify the voice. Dean. Sam squeezed his eyes shut just in time as another flare was lit above him.

The daeva roared, falling away in obvious pain. The pressure abruptly disappeared, leaving Sam panting and clutching blindly at his injuries. He heard something metallic hit the floor nearby, somewhere past his feet, and felt a pair of thankfully _human_ hands grip his head.

"Sammy? Sammy, talk to me, how bad is it?"

He shook off the concern for the moment, using one trembling hand to point down the hall. Once the altar was gone, Meg's hold on the daevas would be broken and they would withdraw. _Hopefully_. "Altar! Destroy it!"

Dean needed no further explanation. He rose and bolted for the table, upending it and scattering the precisely laid-out hearts and sigils. Sam watched through smoke-irritated eyes as his brother broke the wooden slabs of the tabletop for good measure. In the other room, the two daevas howled, their angry wails receding. They were leaving.

"Did you see the guy?" Sam rasped out. Dean frowned, pausing before extending his hand to help Sam up. Following his brother's gaze, Sam looked down at himself. Bloody mess didn't begin to describe it.

Dean sounded like he was trying to keep his voice calm, even as he looked Sam over. "Guy? No. Was it Meg?"

Sam had just accepted Dean's hand, pulling himself up and trying—and failing—to stand, when a human scream sounded somewhere nearby. A female scream. _Oh, God_. It was Sarah.

Glancing up in alarm, he could see that Dean recognized the voice as well. Sam wasted no time withdrawing his hand from his brother's grasp. "Dean! Go!"

"Sam, you—"

"I'll live! Go, before it's too late! I'll follow, just go!"

His brother frowned, but he knew the stakes as well as Sam. Dean reached down and patted Sam's shoulder before taking off in a run.

Suddenly alone, Sam struggled to pull himself to his feet, using a wooden beam for leverage. He barely bit back a cry when his ravaged right side stretched. He almost toppled when he managed to stand, blood rushing away from his head.

Adrenaline and sheer willpower kept him vertical, barely. The smoke from Dean's flare was filling the small space, not helping Sam's ragged breathing any. Using the wall for support, Sam staggered forward toward the main room.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dean rounded the corner out of the side corridor at a dead run, sprinting across the main room so fast that the now-fading flare barely registered in his peripheral vision. He raced back into the hallway he'd been searching earlier, before Sam's shouts and gunshots had drawn him away.

Sarah's scream had faded, but the source was now obvious. Where all the doors had been closed earlier, one at the far end of the dark hallway was now open. Dean headed for it, gun drawn and a flare handy.

Once there, he registered two things simultaneously. The first was Sarah Blake, alive and well if battered, sitting tied to a wooden beam near the center of the room with her arms out in front of the post. The second was a pair of shattered windows along the far wall.

Eyeing the surroundings, Dean circled along the perimeter of the room, toward the bound woman. "Sarah?"

"Dean! Thank God…it was— It was terrible…"

He stopped by the broken windows, throwing a cursory glance out into the darkness beyond. There was no fire escape or ledge, and the roof of neighboring building was far below. Dean continued his circuit toward Sarah, hesitating before getting within arm's reach. "You okay? Where's Meg? The demon, I mean."

Sarah nodded, and Dean saw tears streaking her face. "I don't know what happened. One minute he was talking to me, telling me that you and Sam were here and were going to die, and the next, he left and I heard gunshots. I didn't see him again. Then something burst through the door, I didn't see what. I guess… I don't think it was visible, I just saw shadows against the wall."

The daevas. The bloodthirsty creatures were notorious for turning on their masters when freed. They might have turned on Meg and fled when Dean had broken the altar. _History repeating itself_….

"Where'd the demon go, Sarah? Did you see the man again or a cloud of black smoke?" Dean asked, staying back and keeping his gun ready. Meg wouldn't have left without a fight. Though, the alternative didn't appeal to him.

"No."

"You're sure?" Dean asked, focusing on her. She looked normal enough, but if Meg—

"Yeah, I had this in my hand," Sarah continued, opening her palm briefly to reveal a small anti-possession charm on a chain, then pocketed it. "It couldn't have possessed me. Sam gave it to me."

Dean frowned. Sometimes demons fled when they lost the upper hand, but it seemed odd Meg had withdrawn without more of a fight. Hesitant, he looked at Sarah closely.

Sarah just blinked at him. "What? You think the charm didn't work?"

She pulled out the trinket for him to see. It was one of the older and more elaborate charms Bobby had dug up somewhere. It was also one of the most powerful. Sam had picked it out of the junk dealer's collection especially for Sarah.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Dean stepped forward and started undoing the ropes holding her. "Sorry. I just had to be sure."

Before Sarah could respond, Sam hobbled through the door, clutching his right side. Blood was soaking through his shirt and jeans.

Dean smiled ruefully. "You look like you've been through a paper shredder, Sammy."

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said through clenched teeth. There was no venom behind the words, but clearly a lot of effort. "Sarah? Are you okay?"

She nodded, rubbing her wrists where the ropes had been tight. "Yeah. I'm okay. He…it didn't do anything, just pushed me around a little."

"You're lucky," Dean replied, already turning his attention to Sam, who looked to be a few seconds from collapsing. The daevas had cut him up pretty badly. "Sammy, sit down. Let me take a look."

"I'm fine," came Sam's automatic response.

Dean frowned; Sam was in that damned super-hunter mode again. _Don't mind all the blood; it's only a major injury. I'll be fine. Hell, I can even stitch myself up._

Dean had witnessed that once and vowed never to allow it again. He was still the older brother. Sam could bitch about it all he wanted—and he actually had—but self-surgery was banned.

Fortunately, it didn't look like they were going to have to rehash that argument this time. Sam's legs were slowly folding on him, and he slid down the wall.

Dean rushed forward, guiding Sam down the rest of the way. He might be worse off than Dean feared. "Easy. Hey, I left the bag in the hall, let me get it."

He motioned for Sarah to help Sam, then stepped from the room to find the weapons bag. Their first aid kit was inside. He tried to ignore the whispered conversation behind him, but the building was too quiet for him to miss any of it.

"_Are you okay, Sarah?"_

A nervous chuckle. _"I'm not the one bleeding, Sam."_

"_Thank God. Thought I was gonna lose— I mean— I was afraid you might get hurt. "_

"_I'm really okay, Sam. Rest for a minute. Save your strength."_

A soft, amused huff. _"You sound like Dean."_

Dean came back with the bag, noticing that Sarah had curled up against Sam's left, helping him stay upright. She'd produced a white rag from somewhere, and was pressing it against the bleeding wound on Sam's right side. Dean had seen that look in her eyes before. _Yeah, definitely still a spark there_.

"Break it up, love birds," he muttered, earning a weak glare from Sam. Dean glanced at Sarah as she pulled back to let him look at the lacerations. "Where'd you get the rag?"

She held up an arm, revealing a ripped sleeve.

Dean grinned. "See, Sammy? I told you to marry this girl."

Dean took a moment to look his sibling over. The daevas had done a professional job, considering they were little more than demonic pit bulls. Sam's right side was a bloody mess, as was the shoulder above. Those appeared to be the worst injuries, but there were other just as ugly lacerations running down Sam's chest, back, left thigh, and forearms.

Biting his lip, Dean decided to address the bloodiest of them first and leave the rest for when they got out of the building and closer to the car. A trip to the ER wasn't out of the question, but he'd know more when he could look Sam over in better light. He drew a few sterile bandages and a wad of gauze from the kit and got to work.

Sam gasped in pain, clenching his fists as Dean pressed a bandage against his wounds and started wrapping them. "Yeah…you'd like that…wouldn't you? You…just want her…for her mini-quiches."

"Yeah, you got me, kiddo. Those were awesome," Dean agreed as he tightened the gauze. Sam was clearly in pain, but if they didn't stop the bleeding here, they'd never make it to the car. He just needed to keep him talking until they got the worst wounds covered. "All the food at her dad's was great. The champagne was high-class, too. Not the usual crap we eat. Oh, man, Sam…you got me thinking about that quiche. You need to use that charm of yours to get her to make us some."

He cast another glance at Sarah, needing something to carry on the "conversation."

Sarah seemed to realize what he was doing. "Uh, I think I have to admit something."

"W-What?" Sam coughed.

She smiled sheepishly. "Remember when I told you guys that I made those? I didn't really. Dad hired a caterer for the auction."

Dean scowled, winking at her over Sam's head. "Seriously? Dude, forget it. Dump her, man."

Sam huffed a laugh between clenched teeth. "I think…you just broke his heart, Sarah."

Tying off the last bandage, Dean tilted Sam's head back. Sam was panting and sweating, but he didn't show any signs of concussion or head injury. A nasty bruise was forming over his left eye, though, and shock was going to be a big problem soon if they didn't properly tend to his injuries soon. "All right, all done. Can you stand up, Sam?"

"Think so," Sam muttered, sounding tired. He favored his left leg, not able to put much weight on it. They'd have to check that; the daeva might have done worse than just claw it. Blood loss was going to be a problem, too, if they didn't get him patched up quickly. Dean helped him to his feet, Sarah steadying him on the other side. "Good. The sooner we can get out of here, the better. Let's get to the stairs." Dean scooped up the weapons bag and pulled it over his shoulder, keeping his shotgun in one hand and Sam in the other.

Reaching the stairs wasn't all that difficult. There weren't too many obstructions, and Sam was able to brace against the wall to keep his balance. His leg was really bothering him by the time they reached the door, though, which didn't bode well for the trip down.

"You gonna be able to do this?" Dean asked, warily eyeing the seven flights of stairs below them.

"I, um…I might need some help," Sam replied sheepishly.

Since his experience living and hunting alone, he hadn't asked for much help, usually toughing it out silently. Like their dad. _His leg must be worse than I thought_.

"Let me take this," Sarah interjected, pointing to the duffel. "You need both hands."

Dean turned, letting Sam cling to the wall for a moment, and handed off the heavy weapons bag to Sarah. "Hey, there's a carton of salt in there, can you get it out?"

Sarah blinked at him a moment, then cautiously searched the bag and produced the paper carton. "What do you need this for?"

"I don't, you do," Dean replied, pulling Sam's left arm over his shoulder. It was going to be a long trip down, and he didn't want to have to watch their backs the whole time. "I need you to scatter salt behind us as we go down. There's not enough to make lines at all the floors, but you can sprinkle it on the steps and keep anything from jumping us from behind."

Sarah glanced down the stairs. "What about in front of us?"

Dean motioned at his shotgun with his head. "I got that covered."

0000000000

The trip down had to be exhausting for Dean, but was even more so for Sam. The slashes down his leg had crossed the knee, and every move pulled at the torn skin and the ligaments. They stopped on the fourth floor landing to bandage the wound, but that wouldn't help much while they were still moving.

"Feeling okay?"

Sam sighed, leaning back against the wall while Dean worked. "All right, I guess. My head hurts." At Dean's sharp look, Sam smiled gamely. "Getting rammed face-first into a brick wall will do that to you."

"We should really get you to a hospital," Dean said, winding the gauze around Sam's leg.

Sam frowned. "We're in between insurance cards, Dean, and sitting in an ER all night is practically inviting Meg to take a shot at us. She's still out there."

"Sam—"

"Dean. We'll be safer in a motel room we can lock down. Patch me up, then we can get Sarah out of here. You can sew me up just as well as an ER doctor. I've had worse than this."

Dean grimaced at that. "It really scares me when you say stuff like that."

"I know." Sam smirked. "Putting a needle in your hand scares the shit out of me, too, but we have bigger things to worry about right now."

"Bitch," Dean groused, punctuating the remark by pulling the gauze extra-tight around Sam's knee, drawing a gasp out of him.

"Jerk," he grated out, glowering. He let his gaze wander a little as Dean rechecked the other cuts. Sarah was a few feet above, sprinkling salt nervously on the steps behind them. She was holding the carton gingerly, like she expected it to bite her. Sam smiled a little, before remembering what he'd promised himself on the ride there.

Once they were safe, he was going to say goodbye to her, permanently, whether she liked it or not. He didn't have a choice if he wanted to keep her out of harm's way.

Sam shook the thought away. They were still in danger so long as they were there, and Meg's apparent absence disturbed him. Why go to all the trouble of getting them here and then run off when her plan—whatever it was—started to unravel?

Sam glanced down at the bloody mess of his clothes. _On the other hand_…

"You ready to keep going?" Dean asked, rising from his spot on the floor.

Sighing silently, Sam nodded, allowing Dean to help him up. They resumed the slow trek down the stairs, Sarah occasionally pausing to scatter salt. Every halting step sent a jolt of pain up Sam's leg and side. The constant pounding in his head was distracting, and he had to focus even on simply walking. The rate at which their surroundings were spinning didn't help, either.

It took no more than ten minutes to reach the ground floor and the end of one segment of their painful trip, but it felt like an eternity. Sam's mauled body was throbbing.

Dean deposited him against a wall when they reached the bottom and nudged the exit door open, shotgun ready. Nothing was waiting for them. Double-checking the foyer for threats, Dean did a quick scout, then returned to the stairwell. He nodded to Sarah, telling her to pack up the salt. They were going straight to the car from there.

Quietly, he leaned over and whispered into Sam's ear, too softly for Sarah to overhear. "I don't like this. Meg wouldn't let us out of here this easy."

Sam glanced at Sarah, who was zipping up the heavy duffel. "You think she's waiting for us outside? Or maybe…the daevas?"

Dean shook his head. "I don't know. But I say we get to the car ASAP and beat a path back to the motel before we have to find out. We can come back and scour the place once Sarah's safe."

Nodding, Sam draped himself over his brother's shoulder again to cover the last half-dozen steps. He looked over his shoulder as they headed out the door. "Sarah, stay as close as you can. We're going to book it when we reach the street. Okay?"

She grinned ruefully, casting a skittish glance back up the stairs. "You don't have to tell me twice."

Nothing challenged them in the foyer, nor on the sidewalk in front of the warehouse. Everything was going fine, which only ramped up the feeling of unease Sam shared with his brother. He almost preferred to fight his way out of something like this rather than have a plan work.

His dad used to say that if a plan seemed to be working perfectly, it was probably a trap. As they neared the car, Sam couldn't help but hear those words louder in his head. Something was definitely wrong.

They moved as quickly as they could, hugging the buildings as they made their way back to the Impala. With Sam hobbling, they couldn't move as fast as they had come in earlier, but they reached the car without incident. Dean checked his baby over, making sure nothing was out of place. Getting jumped in the vehicle wouldn't be any better than on the street.

When he was satisfied they were in the clear, he moved to help Sam into the back, Sarah joining him so she could keep pressure on his shoulder and side wounds. They were moving and heading back to the motel moments later.

0000000000

"Wait here, I'll get you cleaned up," Dean said, easing Sam down against the headboard. The ride in the Impala had allowed him to rest, but had also let his wounded muscles and limbs stiffen up. Sam was in more pain now than he had been leaving the warehouse.

Sarah climbed up beside him, carefully unwrapping the hasty field dressings and checking for more bleeding. She had most of the worst wounds uncovered by the time Dean returned with his supplies.

He settled down on the edge of the bed, inspecting the lacerations. "Bleeding's almost stopped. Looks nasty, though. Sammy…I still think—"

"No hospitals," Sam breathed out. "Dean, come on. You know I'm right."

Dean glowered at Sam. He was still sporting that super-hunter persona. The nearly expressionless mask was unnerving. Shaking his head, Dean went to work cleaning the slashes with soap and holy water. Sarah sat back and watched him work, worry and a certain macabre fascination coloring her face.

The damage was extensive, but most of the injured flesh was sliced in almost straight lines. Stitching them was a relatively easy, if incredibly messy task. _Damn it._ Dean had thought he'd snagged some lidocaine during Bobby's recent hospital stay, but he couldn't find any in the kit. Sam was going to have to make due without any painkillers for the time being.

Dean forced himself to ignore the hisses of pain and Sam's shaking hands that fisted the comforter beneath him during the worst of the ordeal. He especially avoided his brother's eyes, which had dulled and stayed fixed on some point across the room the entire time. It was as if Sam had checked out.

Forty-five minutes later, meatball surgery was over. Seeing that Sam was still not acknowledging anything, Dean shook him a little. "Still with me?"

Sam blinked, the stern mask cracking a little when he focused on Dean again. "Glad you're not my tailor."

"Smart ass." Dean swatted him and pulled the sheets up over Sam, not even bothering to take off his brother's shoes or empty his pockets.

With the adrenaline out of Sam's system, enduring all the stitching had left him visibly exhausted. His eyes started to drift shut, but he shook his head and strained to sit up straighter against the headboard.

Dean stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Whoa, what are you doing?"

"We need to get out of town, Dean. We don't know if Meg followed us."

"It can wait until morning. I'll lock down the room. You get some sleep."

"Too dangerous. Dean, listen—"

"I _am_ listening, Sam. You're sidelined. Move around too much and you'll start bleeding again. If that happens, then the only place we're going is to the ER. We'll hole up here for the night, then bug out in the morning."

Sam glared at him, but Dean could see his resolve weakening. He was right and Sam knew it. Finally, his brother relented and sank back into the pillow. Dean decided he'd give Sam a few minutes to relax, then push him down and get him to go to sleep. From the way the kid's eyelids were rebelling against him, it wouldn't take much.

Dean piled the blood-soaked towels in the bathroom and packed up the first aid kit. Sarah was alternating between watching them and staring at the walls, fatigue apparent on her face.

"You all right?" Dean inquired. In his concern for Sam, he'd almost forgotten to check Sarah over for injuries.

She blinked, then smiled weakly at him and shrugged. "Oh, just great. I've been kidnapped by a possessed construction worker, dragged across the country, tied up, used as bait, and then I almost watched Sam bleed to death."

Dean sat beside her on the bed, smirking faintly. "Yeah, he's always playing the sympathy card."

"Jackass," Sam mumbled, eyes fluttering open.

"Charmer, too." Dean nodded toward the grumbling younger man. "I can see the attraction."

Sarah chuckled at that, breaking into a grin. "I don't understand how you two haven't killed each other yet."

"Are you kidding?" Dean crowed. "He worships me. He even admitted that once."

"Don't you have anything to do?" Sam asked, mild annoyance showing.

"Actually, yeah, I do," Dean replied smoothly, rising and heading into the bathroom. He filled a cup with water and grabbed some painkillers from the kit.

Sam was eyeing him suspiciously when he returned. "I need to stay awake, if anything—"

Dean held up a hand. "Non-drowsy, Control Freak. Take 'em, you'll feel better."

Sam begrudgingly took the proffered pills, downing them with the water.

Dean pushed him down onto the pillow and ordered him to relax. His stubborn kid brother would be sorely pissed when he woke up the next morning, but slipping him the sedative-based painkillers was the only way to get him to rest.

A few minutes passed, and Sam was out for the count. _Just like the doctor ordered_. After making sure Sam was soundly asleep, Dean stepped over to the weapons bag on the other bed. He withdrew a salt-loaded shotgun and Sam's handgun. He propped the pump-action beside the bed, within Sam's reach, and offered the smaller weapon to Sarah. She was unusually quiet, but she had been through a lot, and he needed her help. "You know how to use one of these?"

Sarah looked surprised but nodded. "Yeah."

It was Dean's turn to be surprised. She didn't seem the type at all. "Really?"

"After I met you guys and saw what kind of freaky stuff was out there, I figured it might be a useful skill."

"Fair enough. Listen, he needs to sleep, but make sure he gets fluids if he wakes up before I come back."

"Where are you going?" she asked, looking concerned.

"Back to that warehouse. Something's up. No way Meg lured us there just to let us go. She's got to be up to something. I need to find out what before she comes back for Round Two," Dean replied, laying salt lines at the door and the windows, locking down the room.

"What about Sam?"

Dean paused, glancing back at his drugged brother. "I need you to keep an eye on him for a while. He'll be pissed when he finds out, but he's beat to hell right now. He can't help on this one."

Finished with the salt, Dean laid the carton on his bed, gathered the weapons he needed, and cast a final look at Sam and Sarah.

"Look, trust me, I'll be okay. He needs to rest. Don't answer the door or go out. You've got Sam's cell and my number. Call if anything happens. Anything at all. Okay?"

"Okay. Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Dean nodded to her, then headed for the car. He silently hoped he was right, and he wouldn't need Sam on this one. He also hoped Sam didn't wake up any time soon, or he would never hear the end of it.

0000000000

The warehouse still looked deserted as Dean approached. He'd parked on the opposite end of the street this time, not willing to enter from the same direction in case they'd been spotted leaving. As before, nothing challenged him on the way in.

Something was definitely wrong here.

Slipping inside, Dean silently searched the small foyer. Nothing had changed since they'd left over an hour before. Pausing at the exit onto the street, Dean took a paint can out and quickly sprayed a devil's trap on the floor just inside the door.

_We shoulda done this before_, he chided himself. They'd been too concerned with rushing in and catching the demon by surprise, and hadn't been as careful as they should have been. Meg could have slipped out while they were on the stairs or later. _She might know another way down_. She'd used the building before and stayed longer than the Winchesters had. _Hell, she could have even jumped out a window. She would have survived it_.

Once the trap was complete, Dean headed for the stairwell. With salt liberally scattered on all the levels, it would be a fairly safe route up. He dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time most of the way. By the seventh floor, he was winded, but adrenaline made up for the lost energy.

The seventh floor was quiet, not that he was expecting much by way of activity. The large open area where Sam said he'd found Meg was Dean's first stop. The place didn't hold the most pleasant of memories, what with being beat up by daevas there once upon a time. This time, however, it was empty. No sign of Meg, the daevas…the only clue that something had changed at all in the last two years were the spent flares littering the room. And a fair amount of Sam's blood on the wooden floor.

Dean pushed the image of his mauled brother out of his mind, forcing down the urge to dial the phone and checking on him. Growing frustration gnawed at his gut. _Meg wouldn't just leave because the daevas turned on her. Where'd she go?_

The hallway where he'd found Sam earlier was clear, the altar still lying in pieces. Dean backtracked and headed for the corridor where they'd rescued Sarah. All four of the rooms were empty, leaving only the one where Sarah had been tied up.

There wasn't much there, just more leftover junk, trash, old freight pallets in the corners, and the two shattered windows. Pursing his lips in thought, Dean stepped over to inspect them. That side of the building overlooked the shorter building next door and was lit eerily by the flickering red neon sign they'd ran under earlier.

Walking—or flying, hovering, whatever the daevas did—out these windows was a two-story drop to the neighboring roof. Dean shined his flashlight down, though he knew the invisible creatures left little behind.

The flashlight stopped on something, Dean's brain too worried about what was going on to catch it immediately. He stared at where the light stopped for a few long seconds before it registered. A body.

The body of a construction worker.

It was mauled, clothes soaked through with blood. The bloody mess looked like… _It looks a lot like what the daevas tried to do to Sam_. The construction worker was practically torn apart.

History had repeated itself. The daevas had attacked their keeper when Dean busted the altar. _Mauled and tossed him out the window_.

The window right in front of where Sarah Blake had been. The same Sarah who'd said the possessed man hadn't come back.

What had started as a mere bad vibe was growing exponentially into a fire alarm going off in his head. Dean turned away from the window, sweeping the light over the room. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, exactly.

Something glinted against the dull, dust-covered floor. Dean stepped over and took a closer look. It was a tiny silver pentagram resting near the beam where Sarah had been tied up. Dean realized he had seen it before, somewhere.

He stared at it for a moment before the pieces fell into place. He _had_ seen it before. It was the centerpiece of one of the anti-possession charms Bobby had given them before he and Sam got their permanent tattoos. The same kind of charm that Sam had given to Sarah not long after his possession.

_Holy shit._

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sam rolled slightly onto his side, trying to find a more comfortable position on the bed. Sharp, stabbing pain shot up through his abdomen and shoulder, ripping him from a comfortable cocoon of warmth and darkness. His eyes snapped open as he gasped.

His fuzzy brain had to concentrate before identifying the source of the pain. He'd rolled onto the stitches Dean had woven into his sliced-up side. Sam gritted his teeth to hold back another gasp as he righted himself and pushed up a little higher on the pillow. His head felt like it was filled with cotton. Painkillers.

_He doped me up. Damn it, Dean_.

Trying to blink away the bleariness in his eyes, he glanced to his right and noticed he wasn't alone on the bed. He frowned. The drugs must have really affected him for his guard to be so completely down.

"S-Sarah?"

She was staring at him, but came out of whatever reverie she was in when he spoke. "Oh, Sam. You're awake. Good."

He rubbed at his eyes. "What're you doing? Where's Dean?"

"Just watching you sleep," she replied casually, sitting up and inching a little closer. "Dean went out. Making a supply run."

Sam blanched at that. "Alone? Meg's still out there, somewhere. He knows better than that. "

Sarah smiled sweetly, brushing hair out of Sam's face. "Well, your brother always has been a little slow on the draw, you know."

He frowned a little at that. Sarah's sense of humor wasn't usually that pointed, but he had to admit, in this case he almost agreed with her. Dean should never have left the room alone under these circumstances.

Sam gingerly checked his bandages to make sure he wasn't bleeding again. His brain was still processing pretty slowly. "You were watching me sleep?"

"Yeah," she replied sliding an inch closer. Her hand ran gently through his hair. "I was just thinking about us…about what we could have if it wasn't for the hunting…and the other stuff."

"That other stuff…it's— Look, Sarah," he sighed, facing her. "I didn't want to have this conversation like…_this_. But we need to talk."

"About?"

"We can't see each other anymore, even as friends. It's too dangerous for you now. With all the demons roaming free after the gate opened, and half of them wanting me dead…it's not fair, I know, but the only way you'll ever be safe is if you're as far from me as possible. I don't want you to get hurt."

Sarah's expression faltered, darkening with a note of anger. "You mean, you don't want _you_ to get hurt. I seem to recall us having this conversation before, Sam. I also seem to recall telling you that I make my own decisions."

Sam frowned. This wasn't going the way he wanted. He reached up and took her hand, covering it with his. "I know, and I love that about you. I do. But, Sarah, there's a war on, and there aren't any rules the bad guys follow. There are things out there that will use you to get to me. And while I'm tied up trying to break Dean's deal… You're not safe. I wish things were different, but—"

His phone rang behind him. Sighing at the interruption, he rolled back and grabbed it off the nightstand. A wave of dizziness hit him when he moved. The drugs were still strong in his system.

"'ello?"

"_Sam? Wake up, man, we need to talk_," Dean's voice crackled through the receiver.

Sam heard the note of concern in his brother's voice. He tried to focus his sluggish thoughts. "Where are you?"

"_Back at the warehouse. Listen, Sammy_—"

"The warehouse? What are— Dean, get _out_ of there, it's too dangerous by yourself."

"_Sam, is Sarah with you?_"

Sam glanced over at Sarah, who was sitting up next to him now. She looked to be stewing over what they'd talked about. He returned his attention to Dean. "Yeah, she's right here. We've been talking. Why?"

His sibling's voice changed so subtly that a stranger might have missed it. But Sam heard the note of panic filter into it. "_I don't think that's Sarah, Sam. You need to_—"

Before he could answer, Sam felt himself lifted bodily and flung out of the bed. He hit the floor and tumbled against the back wall of the room, landing in a heap.

The stitches along his side didn't survive the violent motion and tore open, causing Sam to cry out in pain. Dazed, he tried to sit up, but the muscles along his aggravated side seized up, and all he managed to do was roll over onto his stomach.

His brain wasn't working fast enough. _What the hell just happened? _He lifted his head to check to see if Sarah was okay, if whatever had hit him had hit her. Fortunately, she seemed fine.

Or maybe _fine_ wasn't exactly the right word. She was rising off the bed, standing over him, looking down with oil-black eyes.

_Crap_. _Possessed_. Sam's brain kicked into gear when he saw that. Thinking back over the past few minutes, her behavior had been a little off. _Too late to notice that_.

Sam forced himself to rise, making it to all fours before the pain took his breath away. He didn't have a chance to do anything else before Sarah's foot connected with his stomach. The kick flipped him over onto his lacerated back, and another kick caught his wounded right side before he could do anything to defend himself.

The pain was intense enough to cause black spots to form at the edge of his vision. Another blow struck ripped a scream from his throat, and he almost passed out.

Sarah loomed over him, smiling. "Howdy, Sam."

"Meg," he wheezed, coughing again. "You've been inside her the whole time…"

He couldn't finish the sentence. Meg must have swapped bodies at some point, maybe when they'd heard Sarah scream.

"No," Sarah chuckled, misunderstanding. "Just since you wrecked my altar and my daevas turned on me. I don't like flying out of windows, Sammy. I ditched the body before they were done with it and hitched a ride with pretty little Sarah here."

Sam didn't engage in further conversation—couldn't, really, the way he was gasping—and instead crawled backward, pulling himself along the floor. Rug burn would be preferable to any more abuse. Scrambling back, he made it around the foot of the bed and angled for the door, when Meg stepped forward and again kicked his wounded side.

He was slammed sideways, head and left shoulder banging against the wall by the TV stand. Sam saw stars. He lay there, stunned, pain radiating from his side and unable to resist when Meg dragged him away from the wall and straddled him.

"We could have a good time together, Sammy. It was always in the cards for us."

"Meg, let her go. You can do anything you want to me, just—"

She jabbed two fingers into his wounded side, tearing stitches and skin easily. Blood ran freely down his side. She grinned when he cried out. "Oh, save the knight-in-shining-armor routine, Sam," his captor exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "You brought this on her."

"No—" Sam choked out, before another wave of pain shot through him.

"You two really are idiots, you know that? My father offered you a kingdom, but all you could think about was your pathetic little quest for revenge. And if rejecting him wasn't bad enough, Dean managed to kill him. That was a big mistake, Sam. You and Dean should never have made it personal."

"_He_…made it personal," Sam spat back through clenched teeth. "When he…killed Mom and Dad…and Jess! He started it, Dean just finished it—"

Her fingers dug deeper, silencing him. "I'm gonna gut your girlfriend right here, Sammy. I'll keep her alive long enough to peel the skin off Dean's bones. You're gonna watch them both die."

She reared back, hand dropping from his mangled side, and produced his silver boot knife. Meg stared at it for a moment, then looked down at him in mock thoughtfulness.

"Or maybe I'll slit her throat. It could be bloodier that way…"

The door to the room burst open.

His sluggish, drugged movements were now hindered further by pain and renewed blood loss, but Sam tried to turn his head toward the sound. He already knew who it would be.

"Get off of him!" Dean demanded angrily.

Sam managed to get his head aimed at the door. Dean was standing just inside, maybe ten feet away, pointing his sawed-off at Meg. He considered warning Dean about what she was, but dismissed it. Dean doubtless already knew.

She smirked at Dean. "Or what? You'll blow holes in this fine packaging? Spray her blood all over your little bro's face?"

Dean's brave front wavered. Sam lay, staring, while his brother traded barbs with Meg, then his hand brushed against his jeans, and he remembered. Dean had left everything in Sam's pockets. His wallet, his keys…and a flask of holy water.

"I should have looked closer at that charm," Dean said. Sam noted the self-reproach in his brother's voice. He had to share the guilt, as he hadn't looked himself.

"Always distracted by a pretty face, Dean," Meg shot back smugly. "You should really start thinking more with your _upstairs_ brain."

Sam kept his eyes on Meg as she started ranting to Dean about killing her father—Meg never knew when to stop monologuing—and covertly reached for the flask. Dean was still aiming the shotgun in her direction. Despite her confidence that Dean wouldn't shoot even with only rock salt in the weapon lest he hurt Sarah, Meg seemed to be waiting. A standoff was developing. Perhaps Meg wasn't as sure as she thought.

Sam didn't give her time to reconsider. He slung the flask upward in an arc, sending a stream of holy water splashing up her back. The effect was immediate. Meg screamed, smoke rising from the wet skin as if she was burning inside. She spun on him, black eyes glistening with malice, and took a step toward him, reaching down.

Flinging the bottle again, Sam sent another spray of holy water right at her face.

She staggered back, howling. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean toss the shotgun aside and grab the carton of salt off the other bed. He raced forward, knocking Meg off her feet, and started dumping the contents of the carton all over her torso and head.

Inside Sarah, Meg shrieked with an unearthly echo, convulsing as the salt hemmed her in on all sides as effectively as if they'd had drawn a salt circle around her. Dean grabbed Sarah's wrists, holding her down, leaving the next job to Sam.

Sam sucked in a breath, heaving himself into a halfway sitting position, and started an exorcism. _"Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursion adversarii…"_

The rite wasn't long, and Sam had it completely memorized, but his strength was waning. His head spun from when he'd hit the wall. His speech began to slur worse and slow down.

The words were taking effect, though, as Sarah's features distorted and blurred. The demon was coming to the surface, fighting all the way. Her struggles intensified as the exorcism began to force her out, tossing Dean violently. For some reason, the memory of Dean riding that mechanical bull in San Antonio from when they were teenagers surfaced…

Dean poured on more salt and doubled his attempts to hold Sarah down. "Hurry up, Sam!"

Dean's shout snapped Sam's attention back to the task at hand, and he focused on the recitation. A few more lines and it would be finished. Coming to the end, Sam forced out the last few words in a rush. _"…spiritu sancto vivit et regnat Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum!"_

Sarah screamed.

0000000000

It was like that bull he'd ridden on Sam's dare in San Antonio on his twentieth birthday. Meg bucked and convulsed beneath him, trying to use Sarah's body to throw Dean off. He tightened his grip, momentarily worrying about hurting the woman, but ultimately he knew a few bruises or sprains would be preferable to remaining possessed.

Meg was being drawn out, Sarah's features twisting and distorting as the demon's true face momentarily became visible. As the exorcism did its work, Meg became frantic, but it was no use. Sam hit the last line of the rite, and suddenly Dean was tossed against the bed as Sarah threw her head back and screamed.

A cloud of black smoke, tinged with blue and yellow sparks, erupted from her throat, blasting against the ceiling like some sick geyser before dispersing in a circular puff of flame.

Dean stayed motionless for a moment, waiting to see what happened next. Sarah seemed to deflate beneath him, passing out. He checked her pulse. It was fast but strong; she was merely unconscious. Dean dropped back against the foot of Sam's bed and looked over at his brother.

Sam looked barely conscious himself. Dean crawled over and caught his head just before it dropped to the floor. "You okay, little brother?"

The younger man peered blearily at him, a tired sigh slipping out. "Peachy."

Dean glanced back at Sarah, who, now that he looked, seemed a bit funny lying there covered in salt. "Hey, Sammy…we didn't even need a devil's trap for this one. We should do it this way more often. It'll be a lot faster."

His brother glared at him a moment, incredulous, before his eyes rolled up and he passed out.

Dean sighed. "You could have at least waited until I got you to the car, dude."

0000000000

Dean smiled at the second-shift nurse as he passed, hoping the old battleaxe didn't suspect him of carrying any more contraband into the hospital. She didn't seem any wiser, but she'd caught him the day before. He passed the desk trying to not look innocent, since she seemed to know when he was doing that.

The doctors had Sam so doped up on painkillers and antibiotics that he'd slept for fourteen straight hours the first day they'd been there. Poor guy had needed a few pints of blood, too. The second day, Sam was off the antibiotics and already tired of the crappy food.

As he neared Sam's room, Dean slowed. When he'd left, Sarah was in there, and he knew that today Sam was going to have that talk with her about their future…or lack of one. Dean didn't expect it to go over well, but on some level, he knew Sam was right. Sarah could be in danger if she continued staying in touch with Sam. In their line of work, they made a lot of enemies, after all. The events of the past few days proved just what kind of danger she was being exposed to.

None of which meant that Dean agreed with Sam. His brother wasn't a hermit, never had been. He needed friends, people to talk to besides Dean and Bobby. Especially in a few more months, when Dean— _Well, when I'm not around anymore_.

Anyway, there were precautions Sarah could take. Ways to keep the lines of communication open. Sam was just scared and acting out of that.

Dean heard a low conversation—no, argument, and a one-sided one at that—going on as he reached the door. Sarah sounded pissed. Before he had the chance to turn around or stop, Dean was almost bowled over when she stomped out of the room, nearly clipping him.

She muttered a distracted apology as she marched down the hall, leaving Dean staring after her. Steeling himself, he stepped through the door.

Sam was lying there, looking frustrated and more than a little depressed.

"I take it the discussion didn't go well," Dean said, stopping by the foot of the bed.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but didn't get a chance before Sarah stalked back in and moved between them.

"And another thing, jackass," she spat, apparently still fuming from before. She leaned in and kissed Sam on the mouth.

Sam was stunned, just lying there frozen, forearm lifting and dropping like he wanted to join in on the kiss but was afraid to try. Had his mouth been free, his jaw would no doubt have been hanging open much like Dean's was.

Sarah let Sam's lips go—_finally, geez!_—and stepped back from the bedside. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't even think about skipping town."

She spun on her heel and went back to storming out, tossing her head at Dean as she rounded the corner and left the room.

"Hi, Dean."

Dean watched her go, eyebrows trying to reach his hairline. "Uh— Hey…Sarah." He turned back to Sam, whose mouth was moving like a stranded fish's. "Dude…how do you land women like that?"

"Shut up," Sam mumbled, still staring at the door. He shook his head and focused on Dean. "When did _you_ get here?"

"Ha-ha." Dean swatted Sam's foot, which was about the only safe part to hit. Sam was covered in bandages and bruises. His right side, where Meg had used him as a soccer ball, alternated between red and black.

"Well? Did you get it?" Sam asked, breaking Dean from his inspection of Sam's wounds.

He patted his coat. "Right here."

Sam glowered. "Well, close the door, for Christ's sake. That nurse will be making her rounds soon."

Dean checked the hall, then closed the door and slid one of the chairs over to block it. He moved back to the bed and pulled the bag from his leather coat. One lame grilled cheese for his brother, one succulent cheeseburger with extra onions for himself. Drinks were too hard to smuggle in, but Sam already had water ready for them.

Sam glanced at Dean's watch. "How much time do we have?"

"About five minutes. She starts at the other end and works her way down."

"Plenty of time," Sam replied, attacking his sandwich.

"Oh, baby…." Dean breathed, digging in. He groaned as the first few bites went down. _These are the best burgers_….

He glanced up to see Sam eyeing him oddly. "You really should get out more," Sam snarked around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Dean would definitely need to short-sheet his bed later.

"So, Sarah's not cooperating?"

Sam snorted. "She's the stubbornest girl I've ever met."

"Yeah. She's perfect for you. I told you that the first time we met her."

All he got was an irritated grunt. Dean suppressed a grin. Yeah, he bet Sam still had it bad for this girl, even after everything that had happened. His brother had always been drawn to the hardheaded ones. He liked the challenge.

"Seriously, Sam…maybe you should back off on this splitting-up thing. I mean, she's obviously still feeling something for you and, well… I mean, I might not be… Just, you shouldn't burn all your bridges, man."

Sam's gaze softened a little. He obviously knew what Dean wasn't saying. _I might not be here in a few months_.

Dean shifted his eyes to the cheeseburger and kept it there. "I wouldn't want you to be _alone_, is all."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, not eating anymore. They both knew that the clock was ticking down faster now. May 2 wasn't that far off.

Chancing a look at Sam's face, Dean sucked in a breath, deciding to just spit out what he'd been mulling over all morning. "Look, Sammy…about the other night. I, uh— About the OCD thing, I shouldn't have gotten on your case about that. I just—"

"No," Sam interrupted quietly, eyes firmly fixed on his hands. "No, you were right. When the Trickster— When I was alone, those six months…I got a little lost, you know? I couldn't find him, I couldn't get you back. Keeping things organized, my routine…they were the only things I could _control_. It's hard to— I don't know how to come back from that, Dean."

Dean stared at his brother for a moment, smiling faintly. "If you don't mind me saying so…you aren't like that when Sarah's around. I mean, you're still an uptight pain in the ass, of course, but…you aren't the same person. You're not that super-hunter guy. You loosen up."

Sam considered that a moment, eyes drifting to the door. "When she's around— I don't know. She makes it easier to forget…all of it." He huffed dryly. "Sometimes it's all I can do just to keep from falling all over myself around her. Maybe it's because I'm so far out of her league."

Shooting a glance at Sam while resuming the attack on his burger, Dean grinned mischievously. "Or _maybe_, it's because your big brother is right and you still feel something there. Trust me, Sammy, I know these things."

Sighing tiredly, Sam shook his head. "Yeah. Maybe. Don't let it go to your head."

"She knows about the deal, right?" Dean asked after a moment, sobering a little.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I told her the last time we saw each other."

"Well, when she cools off and comes by here tomorrow, talk to her again. Maybe you two can work something out that doesn't involve cutting her out of your life completely." Dean had no idea what that solution would be. Sam was right; right now it was dangerous for Sarah to be involved with them. Especially with Lilith out for Sam's blood. But Sam didn't deserve to be cut off from everyone he cared about, either. _Damn it_.

"When did you become the relationship guru?" Sam asked, smirking at him.

Dean forced a grin. "They had a special about this on Oprah the other day. People Whose Ex-Flames Just Won't Give Up On Them."

Sam's smirk gave way to a smile. "Oprah, huh? Still watching that behind my back?"

"Shuddup," Dean growled through a mouthful of burger. Maybe he only had a few months left, unless Sam saved him, but he could still try to make sure Sam was taken good care of afterward.

It was a big brother's job, after all.

END

19


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